CoOperation
by Sar'Kalu
Summary: Title subject to change. Crossover BBCSherlock/WhiteCollar. When a joint venture against the world of crime between the FBI and MI5 goes sour, Mycroft is left to pick up the pieces. Although Mycroft isn't pleased to learn that the FBI will be helping ScotLand yard with the case, he's even less happy with the idea that Neil Caffery is going to be around Sherlock...
1. Chapter 1: Just My Luck

**Chapter One: Just My Luck**

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Sherlock Holmes is a very clever man, or rather, intellectually so. Sherlock Holmes was a dedicated scientist, and an even better Detective, which he did on a consultation basis. He was so good that he even had his own website, and a personal blogger, although, it could be said that since the blogger was his own flat mate, it was slightly less impressive, but none the less, he was still an utterly brilliant man. But there was one thing that Sherlock Holmes had a poor grasp on, and that was emotions. As a purely analytical man, Sherlock very often misattributed emotions where there were none, and attributed none where emotions clearly were. It was just something that didn't occur to the clever detective.

In contrast, Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes, understood emotions very well, he even manipulated them fantastically. This by no means that Mycroft was one of those sentimental and emotional types, _oh no,_ Mycroft, much like his brother preferred not to deal with emotions. The Holmes brothers were ill equipped to deal with such nonsense. However, much unlike Sherlock, Mycroft by no means underestimated emotional or sentimental value. After all, if you did so you missed out on perfectly fantastic blackmail opportunities. And so it was when Mycroft figured out his brothers sentimental attachment to his flat mate, John Watson, he frequently exploited the attachment in order to control his brilliant little brother. Thus it took very little time for Mycroft to bully his brother into helping him with a sticky situation or two by reasonably threatening Sherlock's work and unreasonably threatening John Watson.

It must be said that Mycroft Holmes was as brilliant, if not more so than his brother. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft spent an unholy amount of time with politicians. And while it could be argued that politics corrupted Mycroft into the man he is, his younger brother was more than happy to set the record straight and say that Mycroft had always been a corrupt prat. Nonetheless it must be said that Mycroft Holmes was brilliant, because he truly was. As the shadow leader of Britain, Mycroft held far more power than anyone else on the earth, although that could be because the man also was the shadow advisor to several other countries and quite possibly to the United Nations although it had never been confirmed. But that was completely hush hush, _so don't mention it_. Mycroft also had the unfortunate propensity to have one too many fingers in far too many pies, not all of which clean, and none of which could be traced back to the elusively dangerous elder Holmes brother.

Despite all of this, Mycroft was very much a family man, in as much, that you mess with his little brother, the only person to curb Mycrofts impulses, you'd get rather hurt, if not completely destroyed, let alone dead. No one hurt Sherlock Holmes and got away with it. Only Mycroft had that privilege. One he frequently abused, if only to watch his baby brother get riled up and angry. Mycroft held the private belief that Sherlock was completely adorable when angry, something that he wouldn't on no uncertain terms ever tell Sherlock. The only person to know of Mycroft's weakness was his secretary Athenea, and only two others suspected, those two being Sherlocks flat mate, John Watson, and Sherlocks landlady, Mrs. Hudson.

Sadly, for the two emotionally stunted men the only way to show their love was through ridiculous games of intrigue and intimidation. Games that Mycroft was certainly better at, although that may be because he had more resources. After all, why else would Mycroft waste thirty thousand pounds on surveillance upon his little brother, who certainly wasn't a threat to the state, if not to show a rather bizarre caring for his brothers welfare. Something that had already saved Sherlocks life three times, Johns twice and Mrs. Hudson's once. Not that Mycroft was counting or anything. Although, it could be said that the surveillance was because Sherlock may one day become a threat, but for now was having study done upon him. But it wouldn't be true, no matter how many times you said it. And you'd probably only annoy Mycroft Holmes, which by no means is a suggestible thing to do.

* * *

For his part and on a wholly different subject, Mycroft Holmes hated Americans, something he and his brother were on wholehearted agreement on. Although for different reasons. Sherlock hated Americans because they were loud and obnoxious and he once had an American flat mate who had treated Sherlock awfully. (Sherlock had retaliated by getting Mycroft to deport the bastard on very shaky reasons.) Mycroft hated the Americans for their free booting ways and their inability to accept that the British are simply better in every way imaginable. They were also ridiculously optimistic, not that Mycroft was pessimistic, no, he was a realist, and there was very little that Mycroft couldn't realistically get away with. They very rarely had anything to contribute that Mycroft personally felt that a Brit couldn't do better. In fact, Mycroft preferred Australians to Americans, which was saying something, because Mycroft loathed Australians, much for the same reasons as his dislike of Americans, except for the addition that they were wholly inappropriate and incomprehensible in their actions.

So because of his opinion on the free booting, improper yanks, Mycroft wasn't at all surprised to find that the FBI agent - that he and the American government had teamed together with an MI5 operative - had disappeared. What did annoy him however, was when his operative had been found decapitated in a back street of London, the FBI agent AWOL and the shipment of diamonds missing, not to mention the very rare Cezanne painting equally missing. It was a mess and an international disaster of the highest scale. The Cezanne wasn't really the issue (it wasn't worth much), nor were the diamonds, although he would prefer to get those back, as they were approximately fifty million pounds in value. No, it was the fact that he would now be in his little brothers debt and that if the news papers got wind of this disaster he would never live it down. This really needed to be sorted out straight away.

It didn't perturb Mycroft one little bit that the case he would be pulling his brother from was a mass serial killing of prostitutes, in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Jack the Ripper, Lestrade could handle it, it was cut and dry anyway. Instead he was going to kidnap his brother, and his brothers pet with nary a glance side ways at the bloody victim, and dragg them to his crime scene which, in his point of view was far more important, and thus set them to work. But first, and most importantly, Mycroft had to collect the FBI agents and wait for MI5 to show up and then, and then he would collect Sherlock and hope to hell that Sherlock would help him with as little fuss as was possible.

As it was, Mycroft had no idea that the victim that Sherlock was working on had far more reaching consequences than previously thought. Or cared about. The fact that his phone would chime with a text in a few minutes would illuminate him to this fact, but for now, he was wholly ignorant.

Walking into the airport, umbrella swinging in time with each rigid step, Mycroft was hard pressed not the walk over to the nearest wall and bang his head on the hard surface repeatedly when he spotted the man striding beside the agents. Pasting a smile like grimace upon his face, Mycroft warmly welcomed Agent Burke and his team, before turning to greet the cocky bastard who stood beside the agent, plainly ignoring the cuffs that chained his arms.

"Welcome back to Britain, Mr. Caffery." Mycroft said stiffly. Caffery smirked at the tall politician broadly, his fedora cocked sideways jauntily upon his head as he winked at the elder Holmes.

Mycroft _really_ hated his luck sometimes.


	2. Chapter 2: Don't Lose Your Head!

**Chapter Two: Don't Lose Your Head!**

Sherlock stood on the curb of the alleyway, the rain drizzled from the heavens in a never ending downpour. His black locks hung heavily in his eyes, and he periodically dragged a long, thin fingered hand through them, sweeping them from his gaze as he observed the hustle and bustle that surrounded the dead FBI agent. Said FBI agent was spread eagle on the ground, his head resting near a dumpster ten yards away. The detectives of Scotland yard dashed around occasionally blocking his view only to slide aside at his scathing glare or annoyed and biting remark.

Doctor John Watson was cold, wet and tired, and Sherlock was being his annoying usual self. The blonde man scowled around the crime scene, he'd done his part. Identified the body, the time of death and the cause. Not that the cause really needed identifying, what with the head so obviously separated from the body, but still, it was his duty and obligation to help his rather insane flat mate in his ventures. And frankly it was better than sticking bits of wood down brats mouths and shining lights down their throats to determine whether the overreacting mother was correct in her assumption of the snot nosed brat being sick or lying through his teeth in order to get a day off school. There were times when John hated his profession.

Currently, John was standing behind Sherlock, as his flat mate bent down and ran quick fingers along the dead mans body. Fingers flicked under the collar of the mans business suit, Sherlocks piercing blue eyes were hard and cold as he lifted the mans hand up and peered at the dead mans nails and rings. Flipping the body over, ignoring Lestrades shout of horror at the disruption of the already processed crime scene, Sherlock noted with a clinical air that the man had been stabbed by what appeared to be a sword five times. Once in-between the third and four ribs at a downwards slant, another that would have hit the mans right kidney, another that would have easily speared his liver, once more up through his stomach into his left lung and another one through his right leg. Sherlock cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, it also appeared that the man had been poisoned with arsenic and from the blood drenched shirt, carved up. When Sherlock ripped open the mans periwinkle blue silk shirt and bared his chest, he couldn't help but feel a thrill of sheer pleasure. It was the same as the others.

"Yes!" Sherlock shouted, bouncing up and dancing slightly as he practically skipped over to Lestrade. "It's the same as the last one. Same sword. Same slant in the cutting." Sherlocks eyes were gleaming with excitement.

Lestrade looked to be torn between amused tolerance over Sherlocks exuberance and disgust over said exuberance. "So, a serial killer then." Lestrade clarified carefully, his pale eyes watching the genius once again crouch next to the body and strip the man of the rest of his clothing.

"Yes." Sherlock said curtly. Eyes flicking over the body and cataloging the rest of the details. He bounded up again, his expression a mask of unholy glee. "This will be fun."

Anderson looked sick, his brown eyes contemptuous over Sherlocks excitement. "Shut up freak! There is a dead man there that you're excited over!" He snapped angrily, sharing a look with his colleague Donovan.

"Oh do shut Anderson." Sherlock snarled dismissively, waving a hand in annoyance.

"Sherlock, what do you see?" Lestrade asked tightly. His face unhappy and his coat pulled tightly around him.

It was around this time that John was forced to admit that Sherlock was completely unlike anyone he'd ever met before. He was always so fast, constantly thinking that it was often tiring keeping up with him. And here, in a back street in South Hampton, with the pavements slick with water as more rain fell from the heavens drenching the world around them; that John saw Sherlock in all his terrifying and unnatural being. Blue eyes wild and excited, his expression voicing his thoughts as they raced across his mobile features too fast to be noted, and his quick movements that seemed like spitfire as he paced around, hands clenched to his temples as he drew lines of conjecture between the other body that had been found last week and this one lying in front of him. John blinked as he realized that he'd missed some of Sherlocks dissertation. John felt a wry smile flit across his thin lips as he once again tuned in to his friends comments.

"... The man is wearing Armani, so he's well off, well paid. His license is from San Franscisco, so he's an American, he only has a few hundred pounds on him, so he's not been here long. A tourist then?" Sherlock looked at his unwilling audience expectantly.

"But you don't think so?" Lestrade asked tightly, his voice annoyed as he stared at the consulting dectective. Pissed beyond measure that Sherlock wouldn't get to the point and was making him stand in the rain as it trickled down the back of his collar. It was highly uncomfortable.

"No, he isn't! He had calluses on his hands from holding and drawing a gun, therefore he cannot possibly be a tourist. His suit then becomes not a business suit but a disguise. Unless he's apart of the FBI or any of those other white coller-esque divisions." Here Sherlock paused to sneer at the dead body, before continuing his running commentary. John ducked his head and hid his smile, Sherlock had echoed the self same disgust for Americans as Mycroft had three weeks ago. "I believe he should also have been carrying a brief case, but I cannot be sure, but there were smear marks on the right pant leg of his suit, so I can safely say he carried something there." Sherlock scowled, his mind flicking through the dozen other things the man could be carrying to make those same marks. "It could also possibly have been a small suitcase, but unlikely. The pattern is all wrong. The rain hadn't been falling long enough to truly do any damage."

"What else have you seen?" Lestrade interrupted Sherlocks trail of thought, his expression forbidding.

Sherlock scowled again and thinned his mouth in disapproval. "He was stabbed in the abdomen three times, in the leg once and in between the fourth and third ribs on his left side by a cavalry saber, a heavy one with a basket hilt, there is a bruise forming on the mans abdomen that suggests that the sword was thrust through his body so violently that the hilt slammed into the man body. He was also poisoned with arsenic, the tell tale signs are on his fingers and around his mouth. He was also decapitated, obviously. However the decapitation was postmortem and would have resulted in the impossible identification of the man until he would have been removed from autopsy. Clearly the killer was disturbed."

Anderson sneered as Sherlock mentioned the decapitation. "I think you're making that up. There's nothing to suggest that the killer was disturbed, he probably was violent in his decapitating. The head rolled to where it is."

"Shut up Anderson, your inane comments are useless in this investigation." Sherlock commanded, his thoughts elsewhere as he stared at the body. He pulled out his phone and sent of a quick text before returning his attention to Lestrade. "Apart from that he was unmarried, despite wearing a ring, as it's not well worn and removed often. He is also wearing a ring on his right hand with a shield upon it, I'm not certain what it signifies but if I'm not incorrect (which I never am) I believe it's the shield an FBI agent receives after ten years of active duty."

John appraised his friend as he shrugged and then walked off. Clearly Sherlock knew more than he was saying, as attested to Lestrades shouts for him to come back, his voice pleading. John sighed and moved to follow his flat mate, completely missing the sleek black car that pulled up in the next street, a car that John would have known immediately. As the two men departed the crime scene, Mycroft Holmes stepped out of his car, another car pulling up behind his own, Mycroft ignored the three men and woman who exited this second car, as he strode along the sidewalk towards the body. His mouth curling in disgust at the sight of the mutilated body and decapitated head that stared under the dumpster, as though the dead man was searching for something.

"Where is Sherlock?" Mycroft snapped, his voice cold.

Lestrade stared at the man uncertainly, he wore a suit of the finest tailoring, and he carried a slim black umbrella. "He left," Lestrade motioned with his hand at the direction Sherlock had taken. "Rather abruptly too" Lestrade shook his head and thinned his mouth unhappily.

"No I haven't." Sherlock hissed as he jogged back onto the crime scene. "This was lying in the next alleyway. I can't believe you all missed it, it was so obvious." Sherlock sneered at Donavan and Anderson unpleasantly. He was holding an empty briefcase.

"Why are you here Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped at his elder brother, his voice coldly biting.

Mycroft sighed at his brothers petulant tone. "Because Sherlock, this body belongs to the FBI, as you well know, and because," Mycroft looked rather like he'd swallowed a lemon, "I need you help."

Sherlock glared at the other man. "Help?" He asked scathingly. "MI5 having a day off are they?" He snapped bitingly.

Lestrade blinked rapidly at the pair before remembering precisely who Mycroft was. It was often a bit hard with the man staring so petulantly at his brother, the differences between them were so marked it was like staring at night and day. Sherlock with his black hair and piercing blue eyes and his towering height of six foot two, while Mycroft had thinning brown hair that was swept back from his brow, his eyes were pale grey and looked like ice above his thin aquiline nose. Mycroft was also considerably shorter than his younger brother standing at five foot eleven. The shared features of the pair were their prominent cheekbones, and aristocratic features and their icy cold demeanor. It was often impossible to tell that they *were* indeed brothers, not enemies. As it was, Sherlock's frosty glare that was trained unwaveringly upon his elder brother, look nothing short of homicidal.

"No." Mycroft said stiltedly, as though he was fighting for a polite pleasant tone. John hovered behind Sherlock, his hazel eyes dancing between the pair, looking ready to jump between them and save their dignity. "I vol- am _asking _for your help. I require that you work with the FBI and MI5 on this case. Scotland Yard is being withdrawn from the case, it goes beyond their clearance." Mycroft was staring sternly at his little brother with an almost apprehensive air. It would do no good to say he'd actually confidently said that Sherlock would take the case and that it would take no time to convince the man to work with the Americans and the MI5 agents. If Sherlock declined, Mycroft would loose a lot of face.

Despite what many would argue, Sherlock did actually care for his brother. As much one would care for the health of his pet fish. Frankly, the idea of skipping out of the case, just to piss Mycroft off was vastly tempting. However, on the other hand, the tenseness in Mycroft's posture suggested that he'd already said Sherlock would do the case, and while Sherlock would normally hate to be volunteered for anything, Mummy would be decidedly angry if he backed out on aiding his brother. Sherlock scowled fiercely and turned around to appraise his flat mate. John was standing, no, hovering behind him, his hazel eyes anxious. Dear John, he really didn't fit in well with Mycroft's world, and really, neither did Sherlock, however John was smiling encouragingly despite clearly not being happy with the situation. Sighing heavily, and resignedly, Sherlock acquiesced.

Mycroft felt all of the tension drain from within him, Sherlock could be difficult if he thought it would annoy Mycroft enough. Not only that, but Sherlock would cut off his nose to spite his face if it meant that Mycroft would be left standing in the rain in his metaphorical underwear. And really, it was obvious that his little brother was interested in the case, but the sheer fact that he had accepted it, along with Mycroft's terrible lie and clear discomfort, suggested that John Watson was having an actual benefit to his brother. Added to that Sherlock had actually seemingly asked for permission from the good Doctor. It was astonishing.

Several swift orders later and the crime scene was once again a hive of activity, Mycroft practically dragging his brother to the awaiting FBI agents and John scurrying hurriedly over to the DI Lestrade, his head constantly twisting in a manner reminiscent of an owl as he tried to keep track of his sullen and surly flat mate. It really would be John's luck if Sherlock created an international incident by deducing the senior agent to be having an affair or something similar...


	3. Chapter 3: International Co-Operation

**Chapter Three: International Co-Operation**

John rolled his eyes in annoyance and wandered over to Lestrade. The rain had abated somewhat, and Donovan and Anderson were packing up the crime scene with the ease of long practice. The road glistened wetly in the poor, false light of the over head street lamps. Lestrade looked exhausted, and he would not welcome the intrusion of the federal police of England, let alone the America.

Lestrade gazed at the army doctor, his expression beyond weary. "Yes?"

"Lestrade, Mycroft wants you." John said curtly, and together the men walked back towards where the brothers had just halted in front of the five Americans. "Quickly now, before Sherlock starts something!"

Lestrade blinked and nodded and together the pair picked up their pace.

* * *

Sherlock shifted his weight from his left to his right as he watched Mycroft run through the introductions. He really didn't like Americans, they had no respect for his science, and most were downright rude in their customary blunt honesty. The oldest was a man with greying brown hair, his eyes were sharp and missed nothing. So he was experienced and treated everyone around him with wariness. Sherlock blinked cunningly as he spotted the slight shift that left the younger man within an easy arms reach. A friend, but not trusted. His fingers alternated with playing the FBI shield on his index finger and with the plain gold wedding band on his ring finger. Two loves then, both were well worn and polished, he was a devoted husband who loved his wife and he was a devoted field agent who loved his job, the stroking motion on his wedding band suggested that he missed his wife and work took him away from her far too often.

The next agent was an African American man, with dark laughing eyes and a ready smile, despite this his stance was much like John's. So a trained soldier who hadn't actually been in live combat. The well cut suit seemed to fit him with the ease of someone having worn one for every day, of every year for... five years gathering from the slight wear and tear on the edges of the hems and cuffs. Both were inexpertly repaired, so he was single. The deep lines on his face suggested a deep stress in his life, his reaction to the woman told that his mother or sister had been or was ill. A military man with no real combat experience, had been working for the FBI for just over five years and was caring for a very ill woman.

The other man was a complete contradiction, street smart and well dressed, a glance down his lean body showed that he was both fit and ready to bolt and that he wore a tracking anklet on his person as indicated by the slight rucking up of his pant leg. The fedora was cocked jauntily to the side and the way his teal blue eyes flicked between Donovan and Anderson suggested that he was happily heterosexual with a large appetite for good looking women. His body language deferred to the senior agent and his arms were chained, but not behind his body. So an ex-criminal, probably a white collar crime, his ability with women suggest fraud. His clothing however took it one step further, fraud didn't pay well and was more often than not easily caught; with the calluses on his index and thumb in addition to the easy smile and wary eyes there was only one conclusion. Conman. And very talented one as well.

The woman was easier, the con didn't look at her despite his eyeballing of any woman who was nearby, so she was gay. She dressed neatly and wore her clothing easily and was only slightly younger than the senior agent, so she had been a federal agent for a fair amount of time. Her eyes were wary but she didn't scan the area like the African-American did, so she wasn't a soldier, however her hand was twitching towards her gun, trust issues then. Her constant glances between her partners said very clearly that she trusted them completely and was prepared to protect them at a moments notice. A seasoned agent then with a history of home troubles unable to fix herself to one relationship and was openly attracted to the same sex.

Sherlock regarded them satisfied, his deductions had taken him less than thirty seconds and there was very little he didn't know about them. He knew that the con would have to be watched, a word to John would have that covered. Burke, the senior agent was clearly trustworthy, another Lestrade. Jones and Barrigan were clear partners and trustworthy in their own was, Barrigan was stuck a bit behind in the past, like her boss, while Jones clearly was observing his surroundings with an enthusiasm bordering on passion. This would be fun, or at least, not boring.

Mycroft watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock catalogued the four people with sharp flicks of his eyes. Mycroft also had been able to read them, there was a certain ease in which Sherlock taught people how to see as he did, and it was almost too easy to pick it up from the younger man. Something that was a great help in the political forum. When John returned, he planted himself solidly at Sherlocks shoulder, his gaze frankly appraising as he catalogued who was the worst threat to his flat mate and who would be liable when something went wrong. Mycroft watched with great interested as John apparently chose the dark skinned man, Jones, as the worst threat.

"DI Lestrade," Mycroft said politely and curtly turning to the tired and sodden detective inspector. "This is hereby the last time you work upon this case. You are to hand all evidence over to the MI5 and FBI and ensure that no copies have been made. Failure to do so.." Mycroft trailed off suggestively, his pale eyes resting weightily upon the other man.

Lestrade knew when he could argue against any orders given to him by higher ups, and he also equally knew this was not one of those times. Nodding swiftly to Mycroft, he twisted smartly upon his heel and started barking orders at his team. In ten minutes they were packed up and out of the area and on their way to Scotland Yard to collect the necessary evidence to drop off at MI5 headquarters.

Sherlock was quietly watching the four Americans and Mycroft hammer out the details of the case and who would handle what, when MI5 turned up. The English team had assigned a team of two agents to the case knowing that Mycroft and Sherlock would also be attending it, and that John Watson would be filling in for medical examiner. The first was a man who could not be an inch shy of seven foot, insanely tall he stuck out like a sore thumb. He wore a black trench coat and a black suit underneath that. His shiny black shoes scuffed the cement lightly as he walked and his strides were both even and graceful. His companion was an equally tall woman of around six foot, who had neatly cut blonde hair and green eyes. She too wore a trench coat, but of tan colour and a black suit under that. Professional spies and assassins, they were here to protect Sherlock and John, not to help with the case.

"Mr. Allan Fort and Ms. Joan River," Mycroft greeted the pair. "This is my brother Sherlock Holmes and his associate Dr. John Watson." Turning smartly to gesture at the Americans, Mycroft indicated each person as he introduced them. "Agent Peter Burke, Agent Diana Barrigan, Agent Clinton Jones, and Mr. Neil Caffery, they are the FBI's top white collar crime unit."

Fort and River both nodded silently at the Americans and appraised their fellow Englishmen frankly. Sherlock silently catalogued them, both were in a relationship together, and were clearly dependable. John knew Fort and knew his original name, the man had been a sergeant in Afghanistan three years ago, he had been tapped by special services then, he'd clearly moved up again since then.

"Charmed, I'm sure." Caffery said, making eyes at the woman, River sneered at the man and shifted back into her companions bulk. She towered a good two inches above Caffery and clearly knew about the man, and perhaps a lot more than the average citizen did too. Sherlock watched that information gleam in her eyes and with ease of long practise drew the correct conclusion that Caffery was dangerous.

"Well this is lovely," Sherlock said sarcastically taking a step backwards. "But I have evidence to look at. Mycroft you know how to contact me." With that the resident genius loped off and John trailed after him, his hand twitching to where he had once had a gun holster attached to his belt.

Mycroft sighed in exasperation. "Come along then, we might as well catch up with them, he'll already have had Lestrade deliver the evidence to his flat." Mycroft explained tiredly and everyone quickly piled into their respective cars. Twenty minutes later of dodging London traffic and carefully traversing the slickly wet roads, the agents and politician arrived outside 221b Baker Street. The house was the same as ever, red brick and the lovely flowers over spilling from their window boxes. Inside there came the typical sounds of John shouting at Sherlock as the detective played the violin in a particularly discordant manner. When they all trooped in they were greeted by the sight of Sherlock standing at the window sawing away at his violin, and John bustling about collecting up past cases and experiments.

"Sherlock!" Came an older woman's disconsolate shout from the kitchen. "You used the milk on your eyeballs again! How many times have I told you to tell me when you have run out. John, be a dear and run down to the shop for me and buy something edible?" An older woman walked in and spotted the new arrivals. "Oh, you are hear. Just on time too. We won't be a moment, Sherlock forgot to go out and buy food again." The woman explained as though it was the most normal thing in the world to forget to by food.

Mycroft snorted. "Don't bother, I had Athenea contact Sainbury's and a delivery is on its way. Sherlock never has food in."

John grinned in agreement and went back to clearing off the couches and tables in the flat. With great care he lifted up the skull on the mantelpiece and placed some bills underneath it. "Sherlock, can you actually help?" He asked rhetorically.

Sherlock shot John a dark look. "I'm bored!" He shouted suddenly and leapt over the back of his chair and settled upon it, his knees drawn up to his chest. "When is Lestrade getting here, he should be here already!"

"I'll be in there soon," Came Lestrades voice from the hall. "As soon as I can get past all of these people!"

"Yes! Move!" Came Donovan's unwelcome voice.

Sherlock scowled heavily and gestured for the others to array themselves in the flat on whatever surface they felt like being seated upon. Mycroft took John's usual spot and leaned backwards casually, his black umbrella laying across his knees. John swiftly sat upon the desk chair, Burke across from him on the chair opposite. Caffery, Barrigan and Jones ducked into the kitchen, leaving Fort and River to plaster themselves to the wall and allow the Scotland Yard investigators to squeeze through into a flat that really wasn't designed to hold more than five people. Sherlock leapt up with great alacrity and actually made himself of use in the face of a new case to behold. The clear line linking the deaths of the prostitutes and FBI agent was both bemusing and perhaps a worthy case of such a great genius such as Sherlock Holmes. As it was more than a few of his visitors viewed him with dubious expressions ranging from amusement to disgust over his enthusiasm.

Sherlock, however, ignored them all and spread out the papers and with great yanks cleared the nearest wall of any hangings and tacked up the photographs. Turning back to the papers, he used a blue biro to write out what linked each case together, the photograph of the saber above the newly tacked up information. Then in a sudden slump of movement, Sherlock collapsed into his chair and stared mulishly at the wall. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Sherlock typed out a quick message and sent it off. John sighed and fished out Sherlocks nicotine patches from the sideboard and tossed them at his flatmate. Sherlock caught them easily, his eyes never leaving the photographs and his fingers tapped out a irritated rhythm after slapping on three patches.

* * *

John was unsure how long they sat there, the other agents cooing over the overly chewed up information regurgitating it in ridiculous jumps of conclusions while Sherlock sat in his chair and stared at the wall. Caffery was clearly bored, his eyes wondering over the crowded and over stuffed room, his hands tracing patterns on the chair he was seated on. Burke and Fort were tossing ideas between them, Barrigan and River werent even pretending to part attention and were discussing the latest Hollywood fashions while Jones dozed on the couch, a file open on his lap.

A sudden movement from Sherlock had everyone paying attention suddenly as Sherlock's previously distant eyes brightened with crazed fervour. "Lab!" He shouted, "I need a lab!" He launched himself up and out of his chair, stumbling as he did so and snatched up his coat and shoes. "John, bring the samples. Quickly now, we don't have all day!"

With that Sherlock leapt up and threw his coat on and launched himself from the room with erratic and hasty steps. John moved to follow him, only to have to double back and snatch up the samples Scotland Yard had left behind.

"Mycroft, take your friends away, I have no use for them!" Came the shout from the doorway. John meanwhile was struggling with the samples while he tried to exit the room. Caffery leapt up to help, pleased to be able to escape Burke's presence without his approval and to study Sherlock some more. Burke and the rest of the FBI team let out simultaneous curses and made to follow the ex-con. Mycroft however held up a hand and gestured them closer.

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock will not let him out of his sight." Mycroft said perfunctorily. "What we need to do is see what links there are, if I know Sherlock, and I do, he has already three leads, one of which he's followed up and he is probably narrowing down the second and third ones now."

Fort looked at Mycroft dubiously. "I have heard of Sherlock Holmes, and I know he is your brother and very good, but there were reports recently of his being a fake."

Mycroft waved a hand dismissively. "Those reports were false. I have known Sherlock Holmes all his life and I can say that he has always been and done as he does now."

River shuddered. "Between the two of you I am surprised your birth home is still standing."

Mycroft grinned in a manner reminiscent of a shark. "Who said its still standing?"

Burke frowned. "This is beside the point, you have just let Neil go off with those two. I know of John Watson, he was a very decorated officer in Afghanistan. But Sherlock? What can he contribute?"

"You'd be surprised." Said Lestrade from where he stood forgotten in the doorway, Donovan behind him, her expression one of distaste. Both were looking uncomfortable from their apparent stiffness after standing for hours."Sherlock sees things most people miss. He reads you like a book, and I'll bet he knows you all better than your spouses do."

Donovan nodded slowly, almost like she was agreeing out of principal, not of her own accord. "I may not like the freak, but I have to admit, grudgingly so, that he is good."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow in surprise. He too had been forgotten, his voice had been absent from the conversation as he stared at his phone for the duration of Sherlock's mental inquisition.

"Tell him that though, and I'll deny it until my dying day!" Donovan growled in Mycrofts direction, her eyes sweeping the rest threateningly.

Burke smiled grimly. "Still.." He said unconvinced.

"Enough. We have work to do." Mycroft snapped finally. Turning to the Scotland Yard detectives he raised an eyebrow. "You were told that you were off the case."

"And I say you need me." Lestrade rebutted. "No one else here but John can handle Sherlock, you certainly can't!"

Mycroft whitened slightly, whether in anger or some other emotion was unsure, but his eyes quite clearly spoke of murder. "Leave."

Lestrade curled his lip. "You have my number if you need me." With that he walked out of the door, his shoulders stiff. Donovan followed him, her posture surprisingly meek for one who was normally so fiery. Mycroft had that affect on people.


End file.
